


The Guests Will Applaud and Believe

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail Hobbs Lives, Adopted Abigail Hobbs, Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha Will Graham, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Bottom Will Graham, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Come Swallowing, Creampie, Dark Abigail Hobbs, Dark Will Graham, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Fake Character Death, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Happy Murder Family, Knotting, M/M, Minor Alana Bloom/Hannibal Lecter, Minor Alana Bloom/Will Graham, Murder Husbands, Oral Knotting, Possessive Behavior, Secret Relationship, Switching, Top Hannibal Lecter, Top Will Graham, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25990522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: What if Will had been in on it all along?--"She's not safe here," Hannibal says. Foreheads, noses, lips brushing. Will is a creature that desperately needs touch to be soothed. "And there are so many other things we hide. Our love, our bond, our…extracurriculars."Will laughs. "We'll always hide that.""Could we not reveal all of it, at once?"
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 42
Kudos: 596





	The Guests Will Applaud and Believe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ishxallxgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishxallxgood/gifts).



> Thank you so much Ishy for this prompt! It was so much fun to write ahhh I love when I get to make Will just batshit :D
> 
> The paraphrased prompt: An Alpha/Alpha S1/2 rewrite where Will was part of the plan to 'kill' Abigail and hide her all along, so when he went to prison it was part of the plan and he knew Hannibal would get him out.
> 
> This does cover the Willana kiss, and an implied Hannibloom affair, but it's all part of the plot. 
> 
> Title taken from "Farewell Wanderlust" by The Amazing Devil.
> 
> I hope you guys like it!
> 
> Enjoy!

No one is there to greet Will when he exits the courthouse. There were paparazzi and press at one point, he's sure, but they're more interested in the man who put him behind bars. He's no longer their shiny toy, no longer the scandal they can sink their teeth into.

He's old news, just as he likes it.

There's a single car waiting in the parking lot after hours, at a bank where no one thinks to look. It's black and the windows are tinted, and the engine is running. He circles to the passenger seat and slides in.

Immediately, warmth envelopes him, with the scent he knows as well as his own. He closes his eyes, sighs, and tips his head back against the headrest.

"Everything's ready?" he asks, and holds out his hand.

Warm, long fingers lace with his own, and squeeze. "She's waiting for us."

Will smiles, just the barest twitch of his lips to show his fangs, and he nods. "Let's go, then."

Let us go back, before that moment.

One year ago, where there was a man who was killing young girls so he didn't kill his own. A man who ended up with ten rounds in his chest and his daughter, so precious, so pale, bleeding out on the kitchen floor. To the day when two men became fathers on the same day another died.

No. Further still.

Back, days before that. To when someone who didn't want to be there was commanded by someone who thought he could get away with it to get a psych evaluation by someone he shouldn't have known. Conflict of interests, an excuse much more easily given than it was received. To this day, Jack Crawford doesn't know the reason Hannibal Lecter refused to _officially_ profile Will Graham, and referred him instead to a colleague, Bedelia Du Maurier, who rubber-stamped him after a single, brief conversation. Jack doesn't know that there is a mark on Hannibal's neck, lower than collars will reveal. That there is another set of bites down his flank, savage and straight. That the mating mark on Will's nape is in the shape of Hannibal's teeth.

Alphas don't mate, after all. That's more rare than serial killers.

But, no, we must go back a few years more. To a lonely professor, disheveled and drunk, stumbling down a dark street and hissing at anyone who came near. To another man, prim and proper, prowling his way from the opera house to somewhere dark and hidden away. His belly is empty, his eyes sharp.

They meet each other on the corner of coincidence – no, _fate,_ the older one insists – and bloodlust. Will still has the scar from Hannibal's attempt on his life. Hannibal earned the first bite that night, though it was made by fear and not adoration. Now, though….

So let us return to the inciting incident.

There is a girl in a hospital bed and around her are two Alphas and a woman. They have all known each other for years, one mentoring the other, curious about the third. The girl is asleep and there's a bandage on her neck only a few shades whiter than she is.

"She needs someone to watch out for her," Alana says. Will lifts his chin, eyes narrowed carefully not in her direction. God forbid he come across as _unstable_ , even as the mindset of a father sits in his skull. Hannibal can't give him children, nor can he sire any with his mate. Will has never minded that until now.

And now he has one, perfectly formed, wonderfully made. He can't fuck her up too badly, but he can love her, God can he love her, until his dying day.

"We're perfectly willing to assist," Hannibal says. Always the more neutral one. The one that plays nice until he doesn't. "Jack intends to continue his investigation around her involvement with her father's crimes."

"You really believe she was involved?" Alana asks. She doesn't want to believe it but she's not stupid, either. Her eyes are as sharp as Hannibal's – otherwise he wouldn't have bothered teaching her. A man out West prospecting for gold doesn't bother with sand. Will turns away, then, and circles her bed. He sits beside Abigail's shoulder and carefully pulls the edge of her blanket a little higher over her arms. His touch is tender. There is a father's love in his chest, albeit a possessive and dark one. It reaches for her with claws and silk.

Hannibal shifts his weight, in Will's periphery, and his fire calms, his teeth grow dull by force. There is a muzzle on him, Hannibal reminds Will, in silence. He pulls his hand away and rests it on his knee. "Whether she was involved or not, she is a victim," Hannibal says, and Will nods along, and Alana looks concerned but unwilling to argue. "Of her father, at the very least. As a matter of survival. I will not see her punished for surviving."

Alana nods, at that. "We're in agreement, then," she says, eyes on Will. Will only gives her the barest hint of attention. Hannibal puts a hand on Alana's shoulder and steers her out, closing the door behind her.

"Jack's not going to let her walk free," Will says, when the door is shut and they are alone. "Someone needs to answer for what Hobbs did. He'll make her into an example."

"You want to protect her," Hannibal says, gravitating closer. He puts his hand on the back of Will's chair and no closer.

"Yes," Will says, like a vow.

Hannibal smiles, unseen by his mate. "Then we will," he replies, as though it's as simple as that.

It's not that simple, as it turns out, but that's hardly surprising.

When Abigail wakes up, Will claims her by right of slaughter. He killed the Alpha in her homestead and, since she was still under his guardianship, Will is allowed to claim the property and people within, which includes her. It's an old law, archaic, and Will hates it with a burning passion. But it will keep her safe.

She likes his dogs. She likes the openness of the field around his house, and the promising shelter of the tree line, and the open stream he takes her to when the days are warm enough. She is, in his mind, almost certainly a killer. Or at least comfortable around them. Which is good to know, considering who her fathers are now.

He puts her in the upstairs bedroom and keeps sleeping in the living room. When Hannibal visits, they guard the entrance like the dragon guards the princess in the castle, and keep her safe.

But it is not enough. The brave knight is very determined.

Will feels it like whispers along the back of his spine, tension making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, his shoulders tensing. Alana seems at the university more often than not, concern hanging around her like a fog. She watches him like an evaluator for a foster home, but far more vigilant.

"Is she okay?" she will ask, and Will can't give her any answer than 'Of course'.

"I'm just worried about her," Alana continues, presses, following like a second shadow. Will halts, because concern for his daughter is a concern he should share. "Will, you can't raise her alone."

Will frowns.

"She needs a mother. Or an Omega. Someone."

Though Alana says _'she_ ', Will knows she means that he needs someone. Just like in real life, biological parents get away with so much more. If her mother had simply died, no one would doubt her father's ability to raise her alone.

He doesn't say that. Instead; "I don't need an Omega," Will replies curtly. Alana's eyes drop down to his neck, where the edge of Hannibal's bite mark is just visible. It's old and scarred, no need for it to be laid twice, especially when Will almost killed him the first time. Bonds can be broken, much more easily than they used to be. It's not her fault she assumes something that old is dead, or no longer in the picture.

"I'm not saying _you_ need one," Alana says. Liar, liar. "But she's not actually your child either, Will. You might turn on her without some kind of outlet."

"An outlet," he repeats. "What kind of outlet?"

She regards him like he should already know the answer. It's the same answer he's always gotten, whether it's a flirt at a bar or Doctor Du Maurier, with an arched golden brow and a flick of her pen, when Hannibal refused to rubber-stamp him. Alphas need _outlets_ , they say. They need something to fight and fuck and use. And Will hates it when people say that. He hates it when they're right.

"If you're so concerned, you can stop by the house whenever you want. You don't need to worry about me, Alana," he says sharply, and turns away.

But she is right, and Hannibal knows it as well as Will.

"Jack is like a dog with a bone," he says idly, over whiskey and wine, respectively. Amber floats on the inside of Will's glass, red in Hannibal's, the same shade as firelight and blood. Will is by the fire, painted in golden hues, one hand braced upon the mantle. He is lean and strong like this, half-obscured. Hannibal goes to him and kisses his cheek when it's offered.

"I know," Will replies, with a bitter smile he gives his glass. "And Alana seems to think I'll kill her any day."

Hannibal's head tilts, lips brushing idle down the nape of Will's neck, until he reaches the scar. Will shivers, bares his teeth, dulls them with whiskey. "What if you did?" Hannibal asks.

Will tenses.

"My darling, not like that," Hannibal says, smiling when, once again, he is reminded of Will's fiercely protective nature. One hand wraps around Will's wrist like a manacle, the other settles his wine on the mantle, and Will's whiskey beside it. He cups Will's face and turns him as though they are dancing, and Will's back ends up pressed against the bookshelf beside the fire.

Will stares up at him, eyes black, unreadable. "Like what, then?" he replies, challenging.

"She's not safe here," Hannibal says. Foreheads, noses, lips brushing. Will is a creature that desperately needs touch to be soothed. "And there are so many other things we hide. Our love, our bond, our…extracurriculars."

Will laughs. "We'll always hide that."

"Could we not reveal all of it, at once?"

Will's brow creases. He tilts his head, unconsciously teasing Hannibal with more of his neck. Hannibal nuzzles beneath his ear and tightens his grip around Will's wrist. Beneath the pressure of his thumb, Will's pulse races. Adrenaline turns his scent sharp and cottony, thick on Hannibal's tongue.

"What if you hurt her," Hannibal whispers. "And I hid her. And then, we all ran away."

Will tips his head back, forcing Hannibal to meet his eyes. Whiskey dulls Will's teeth, but loosens his tongue and sharpens his gaze. And he has never needed much help reading Hannibal's intentions. "I…. I couldn't hurt her," Will says. "I can't."

"I can help you," Hannibal promises, kissing the words to Will's ear. "Just a little piece. Enough to confirm identity. Then, she could disappear. And when the time is right, we can prove your innocence. And disappear along with her. Fade into memory. Almost polite, considering the alternative."

Will bites his lower lip, sucks in a breath when Hannibal nuzzles his throat.

"Think about it," Hannibal whispers. "I don't need an answer tonight."

Will laughs, and finally remembers his other hand. He slides it into Hannibal's hair and grips tightly. "Liar," he says, affectionately. And then, a kiss, reminding Hannibal that while his teeth may be dull, they are never gentle. Hannibal grips him more tightly, shoves him against the bookshelf so suddenly that it creaks in protest.

"And you love a liar," he purrs, as Will gasps and gazes up at him. There's whiskey and courage on his breath. He never looks at Hannibal with fear anymore. Not since the aftermath of that first night. Will has claws and the siren song of his body to overpower his mate whenever he pleases.

And Hannibal goes, easy as anything. Their kiss ebbs between bites and breaths, Will panting as he figures out the buttons of Hannibal's vest, and then shirt, and the knot of his tie that he tugs too tight before letting it go. He shoves all the pieces at once down Hannibal's shoulders as Hannibal noses at his neck, delighted by the race of his mate's pulse, the barest hint of his sweat.

"I want to crawl inside your skull," Will breathes, as he tears at his own shirt and pushes it off, hanging, bunched, at his elbows. He looks decadent, good enough to eat. Hannibal has more scars than Will, all of them bites that are deep and dark and ever-purple with bruising. Will, in contrast, is clean as fresh snow, untouched porcelain. That will work to their advantage. "I could sit and use your face, hide our designs."

Hannibal smiles. " _Our_ designs, darling?" he teases. Will shows his teeth and sinks them into his shoulder in answer, catches skin and tugs until blood vessels burst beneath.

"Your calmness," Will says. "My demise. Ours."

Hannibal cups his face and kisses him, tasting his own skin on the edges of Will's teeth. Will snarls and pushes, back, back to the couch and then onto the armrest as Will slides into place between Hannibal's thighs. Hannibal lets him, in love with how Will is when the shadows are stronger than the light. Will's kiss, his teeth, his greedy ever-wandering hands, are all careful hooks and lures for monsters like him.

Will puts a hand on the line of bites on Hannibal's flank and huffs. "Will you pretend I attacked you as well?" he asks, nosing at Hannibal's bruised shoulder. "These marks will be fresh. You could. You would, wouldn't you?" His nails tighten, he snarls. "You'd make me into a monster and laugh at my deformity."

"There is no version of you I would not find beautiful," Hannibal replies, with a kiss and a gentle touch to the base of Will's skull as Will slides his hands down and begins to unfasten his suit pants. Heat and sweat grow between them as easily as bloodlust, and Will cups Hannibal's thighs and bodily lifts him, setting him down properly on the couch and pushing his way back into the open space between Hannibal's thighs.

"I know," Will says, and swallows. "What will you do to her?"

His fingers dance along Hannibal's knuckles, and Hannibal smiles. "Not her fingers," he soothes. "I want to teach her to play the piano, one day."

Will's eyes lift, and then close when Hannibal nips at his ear. His shudder is heavy with understanding, and he nods.

"I cannot offer you my skull, my love," Hannibal whispers to him, as he sets to baring Will as well. "But I can offer you everything else."

Will snaps his teeth together, snarls, his eyes flashing with a gleam of red that is so often buried, just like the nature Hannibal so lovingly brought to life. Will's red shows like cracks in a mountainside, bright and secretive. Hannibal will need to draw it out to make the play convincing. Method acting, and all that.

He mourns the fact that he cannot leave marks of his own. Though Will is usually reluctant anyway – he gives Hannibal his pain like scraps of meat to a starving animal. Occasionally, a bite. Bruises like birthday presents. Claws, certainly, raking down his back. But never the deep, primal marks Will leaves on Hannibal. He doesn't know if Hannibal can stop once he starts.

Hannibal doesn't know if he would stop, if he started.

They fall together on the couch, naked where it matters. Hannibal's chest and cheek stick to the leather and Will prowls over him and pins him down. He spits, direct on Hannibal's hole, smears the slick around and shoves his fingers into Hannibal's mouth for more. Hannibal wets Will's fingers with the same fervor he takes Will's cock, and Will groans and ruts against him like an animal, smearing precum sticky-wet on flushed skin.

"You'll smell like me," he breathes, realizes a second too late.

Hannibal laughs, when his fingers withdraw. "We have time for it to fade."

Will nods. A brief moment of tenderness, then; a kiss on Hannibal's shoulder, a nuzzle to the nape of his neck that sends a shiver down his spine. Instinctively, he shows his teeth and wants to fight Will off – they are both Alphas, after all, and have no biological imperative to submit unless forced.

"I need you," Will says. That soothes the beast. That plants a hook in the fish's mouth and hauls him out of the water.

Hannibal breathes in deep and holds it as Will spreads the last of their saliva, and wets his hand, wrapping it around his cock. He kisses Hannibal's ear and wraps his free arm below Hannibal's chest, to feel how his heart races, to curl his nails through chest hair and warm skin.

He pushes in. It's blunt and brutal and makes Hannibal gasp, closing his eyes, breathing through the pain. No stretch, no preparation. They've done this long and often enough, and Hannibal has ample control over his body to assure there is no real damage done. Will puts his hand on Hannibal's hip to keep him from fleeing and sinks in with a ragged snarl.

" _Hannibal_ ," he breathes, a curse and a blessing. This is what it's like to give praises to the Old Testament God, Hannibal is sure. He tilts his head and arches his shoulders as Will covers him and kisses him, and pushes himself in deep, holds himself there, savoring the moment.

Their fingers lace on Hannibal's chest.

Will trembles for him, gasping. There is no air – his body has learned to only breathe, only eat, drink, swallow what Hannibal gives him. Hannibal twists on the couch so that he can give his mate new life, cupping his red cheek and kissing air into his lungs. Will jerks, moaning, rutting. He's already close, knot half-swollen. Despite the victim, the idea of doing grievous harm drives Will insensate.

Hannibal settles on his side as Will starts to fuck in earnest, teeth bared against the ridge of his ribcage, above the line of scarred bites. He sucks a new bruise to the halo there, giving Hannibal two sensations to focus on – the pain, stinging and tender, and the pleasure of his mate inside him. Will's hand slides to Hannibal's cock, stroking in a slow counterrhythm to his thrusts.

Their eyes meet and Will goes still, grunting, pressing in as deep as he can. One leg falls to brace his foot on the floor, the other creaking into the seam of the couch cushions as his knees spread. He tilts his head back, neck tense and corded with muscle, sweat dripping from his hair. God above, he's so beautiful in Hannibal's eyes, golden and shining.

His knot is large, and Hannibal's body is tight, but Will is skilled at this. He has to be, to sate a man like Hannibal Lecter. His knot swells inside Hannibal, no extra tug on his sensitive rim, purely pressure on the inside that finds his prostate like a hunting dog and locks on. Hannibal shivers, sighing a pleased moan as Will keeps stroking him, rutting his knot against Hannibal's prostate, free hand digging crescents into Hannibal's shoulder.

They lack the internal sensitivity of Omegas and women; Hannibal doesn't feel the warm flood when Will comes. But he can see Will's reactions, and imagine. He clenches around his mate's knot and Will cries out like he's been injured, eyes flying open and locking, threaded with red.

" _God_ , do that again," he whispers, rasping, begging.

Hannibal obeys, smiling as Will whimpers and puts both hands on Hannibal's cock. The angle is awkward but Will is determined, one hand cupping Hannibal's half-swollen knot, the other stimulating the head and shaft. Hannibal finishes a few moments later, growling low in his chest as he watches Will watch him, staring each other down, waiting for weakness.

Will breaks, first. He often does. His lashes flutter closed and he lets out a quiet, needy sound, smearing Hannibal's come on his face as he sucks his fingers clean. Hannibal adjusts, ignoring the protest from Will's throat and his own body, and turns so he can sit on Will's lap, pinning him down to the couch while they wait out his knot.

He nuzzles, licks the stain on Will's jaw, breathes him in. There is nothing as satisfying, he thinks, as when Will wears his mark, his scent. They will have to shower thoroughly, and maintain chastity so that there is no suspicion during the first phases of their plan, but tonight is a night of indulgence, and Hannibal has always been a gluttonous creature.

He kisses Will and feeds him more air as Will whines, trembling, petting gentle hands up his back. There is still whiskey on Will's tongue, chased with salt and semen. His eyes are so bright, even in the darkness.

Hannibal touches his neck, pleased when Will tilts, offers. How easy it would be to bite, to reopen that old scar. He won't – but he will, when this is over. When he and Will can enjoy each other to the fullest, free and wild.

"You must convince Alana you're dangerous," he says, to Will's blushing cheek.

Will makes a sound, bitter and soft. "That won't be hard."

"I have every faith in you."

Alana takes Will up on his offer to visit the house. They have returned from a fishing trip and Abigail is cleaning the lures and packing away the fish while Will strips and organizes the equipment. He has told her, already, that she must act wary of him. Wary enough for concern, but not enough for genuine intervention.

He has every faith in her. She is a delightfully capable prey animal.

"You don't need to see her," Will snaps, when Alana asks after her. "She's fine. She's in the kitchen."

Alana eyes him with steel and concrete. Will admires her ability to stand strong around such an _unstable_ , dangerous Alpha. "I'd like to," she says.

Will makes a show of exasperation that isn't quite fake. He lifts his head. "Abigail!" he calls, in a scolding voice. "Alana's here."

She enters, wide-eyed and skittish. Her head bows, deferential to the Alpha that is her liege lord. Her fingers fidget and she bites her lower lip. "Hi, Alana."

"Doctor Bloom," Will corrects. "Show some respect."

Abigail swallows. "Doctor Bloom," she echoes.

Alana frowns. "Will," she says, "may I have a moment with Abigail, in private?"

"No," Will hisses. "You may not."

Alana eyes him again. Will knows he is acting out of character, but that's precisely the point. He's meant to be losing his mind, to have a young female he must protect and guard, and no Omega, mate, or wife to take out his more primitive instincts on. He's sure people might whisper, if he had people to whisper about him. Maybe the guys at the lab, or Jack.

Definitely Jack.

"How are you settling in, Abigail?" Alana asks with a kind smile. Will might regret making her feel so terrible around him, but this is all part of the plan. Maybe one day she will understand.

Abigail's smile is thin, eyes watery. She can cry on cue – an admirable skill Will envies. "Good," she says. "Will is -." Will snarls at her. "Alpha takes good care of me."

Will smiles. Good girl. She could be his and Hannibal's daughter by blood with how well she plays a role.

Alana's expression is grim, her scent sour with distress. Will is the only one who can smell it, as an Alpha. He ignores it, and finishes packing away the gear. He walks over to Abigail and she looks at him with wide eyes. He pets her face and squeezes her shoulder, so gently, but she winces.

He hands her the box. "Make sure you put everything away properly," he says, warning. She nods, and leaves.

"Will," Alana says harshly, glaring at him when he turns to her. "You need to go talk to someone."

"I'm talking to you," he replies, arching a brow.

"You're acting like a brute," Alana says. Will steps closer to her and she lifts her chin. She's not _quite_ afraid – something on the edge of it. Wary. His head tilts.

Intrigued. Her scent is thick beneath her perfume; lilies wet with dew. Jasmine, by the field-full. Vanilla extract that reminds him of sweet dessert. Her pupils are dilated when Will comes too close to be strictly friendly.

Oh, Alana, what a complex woman you are.

He draws in a breath, reigns the 'brute' in. "I'm…sorry," he whispers. It is easy to remember how shame feels. Before Hannibal, it was all he knew. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and flinches from his own touch.

The lure works like a charm. Alana, though no Omega herself, has the instinct to soothe when someone is in distress. She puts a hand on his cheek and he clenches his jaw.

"I'm sorry," he says again, like a veil has fallen from him. He gasps. "Alana, fuck, I didn't -." He looks behind him, to the closed kitchen door. He can hear Abigail puttering around, giving him time to lay the final pieces of bait. He is not a hunter by nature, but she was a good student, and has been a great teacher.

He looks back at Alana. Her eyes are softer, now, lips thin and turned down subtly at the corners. "I don't know what I'm doing," he admits. "I just…. I feel like I'm going…." He doesn't finish the sentence; lets her finish it for him.

"It's okay, Will," she soothes, rubbing her fingers gently over the nape of his neck. It's pleasant, in that absent kind of way, like getting a professional massage versus one from a lover. He lets her pull him closer. "I know you're doing the best you can. You just need to find someone to help you."

He meets her eyes, and swallows. "I trust you," he murmurs. Her smile is genuine, her scent so sweet. She doesn't pull back when he leans down and kisses her. It's deep, sharing air, though hers is stale compared to Hannibal's. Her hand slides into his hair without conscious thought.

She stiffens and steps away, just as he knew – hoped – she would. If she hadn't, he had a plan for that too. He chases her, performatively, and she sighs and rests her forehead against his.

"Not me, Will," she says. But her hand is still in his hair and he can feel how she trembles in his arms. "I'm sorry. You're too -."

"Unstable?" Will's smile isn't entirely fake, for its bitterness.

She gives him a look of concern and sympathy, and bites her lower lip. "I can't enter into something like this, as you are," she tells him. "But I know you want to get better. I'll find you someone to help."

He sighs. "If you think that's best."

When she leaves – he's surprised she does, to be honest, but his shameful performance must have done the trick – he goes to the kitchen and Abigail grins at him. She goes to him and hugs him, and then puts her chin on his shoulder as he finds a bottle of Fireball and drinks straight from the bottle to wash out the taste of Alana's mouth.

"You did a good job," he tells her.

She smiles. "You too," she replies, and tilts her head. "Can I have a sip?"

"When I'm done," he says. After all, who is he to draw the line at a little underage drinking.

"I kissed Alana Bloom."

Hannibal's eyes are dark at the confession. His lips purse unhappily. "Did you enjoy it?"

"No." It's honest. "But I understand if you want retribution." He's ready, slicked up and open, if Hannibal wants to tear him apart. He made the first cut himself, easy as anything.

Hannibal smiles. "If we had more time, perhaps," he replies. "But denying you has brought your red out more. It's more convincing, this way." He touches Will's cheek, thumbs at his lip. "I'll dream of cutting out your tongue tonight."

Will smiles. "She's very kissable," he taunts. Hannibal's eyes flash and darken further. "You wouldn't cut me. You'd eat it raw. Bite it clean off."

Hannibal smiles. "Would I now," he purrs, in a way that makes Will shiver. He can feel how badly Hannibal wants to kiss him, to do just that. If your right hand offends you, cut it off and throw it away. If your mate's tongue offends you….

"I drank myself dry washing her out," Will says.

Hannibal's head tilts. "You will suffer," he murmurs. Promises. He kisses Will's forehead, feather-light. "You'll be beautiful in your suffering. More than you are, at all times." His fingers curl. "May I make it worse?"

"You're mine," Will says. "Anything you do to me I'll get you back for; you know our patterns of escalation better than anyone. So do as you will."

Hannibal smiles.

Will doesn't stick around to watch what Hannibal is going to do to her. He can't bear it – watching his mate harm his child, no, he couldn't possibly. So he waits at home while Hannibal takes Abigail to his house. There's no reason she should be there. They won't go looking for her there.

When Hannibal shows Will the torn remains of her ear, he almost vomits right onto it.

"Hush, darling," Hannibal whispers. He touches Will's face and Will can smell her blood on his hands. Even though he knows Hannibal wore gloves during the removal. She probably felt no pain. She was probably sedated, and it was kind, and over in a moment. She's fine, she's fine, she -.

"Do you need help?"

Will bares his teeth. "Maybe," he replies. Hannibal nods, and takes the ear with utmost care from the cooler of ice. He guides Will with a hand in his hair, towards his bed which has not smelled like both of them for quite some time. They must maintain the illusion that Will is a single Alpha, too close to the tipping point of feral, rejected by the one person he reached out to for help, for there to have been any other outcome.

Alana will eat herself alive with guilt, if Will plays his cards right. He's not sure that adds to the nausea or the headache more.

"I can sedate you, if it will be easier," Hannibal says. "It needs to reach your stomach, and remain in there for long enough to imply that you consumed the rest of her."

Will's stomach turns, and he wants to call it stage fright. He sits on the edge of the mattress and puts his cheek in Hannibal's free hand, and lifts his gaze to his mate. "Wouldn't sedating me keep it in too long?" he asks.

"Not if I then gave you a vomiting agent, and metabolic stimulant," Hannibal replies.

Will considers that, then shakes his head. "Injection sites will cast aspersions." His smile is lopsided, dimpled, and fanged. "I have access to a _very_ good lawyer."

Hannibal laughs, and kisses the corner of his mouth. "The natural way, then," he says, both of them grinning at the inside joke. Two Alphas together is far from 'the natural way'. Will takes the ear from Hannibal with trembling hands. He knows he won't mind the taste, he has ripped living flesh from bone before. Even, often, from the man sitting beside him now.

Hannibal's hand is gentle in his hair, but promising on his throat. He will force Will to swallow, and keep it down, if he must.

Will closes his eyes. "Is she okay?" he whispers. "Can I talk to her?"

After all, who knows how long it will be before he sees her again.

Hannibal sighs through his nose, gently, more sorrow than irritation. He slides off his gloves and takes his phone out of his pocket. "She may not answer," he warns. "Or be less than communicative." Will nods, his eyes on the screen as Hannibal unlocks it and opens a video chat with Abigail.

She does answer, though the room she's in is dark, and the only contrast on her face is provided by the phone itself. Still, Will leans forward and takes the phone from Hannibal, holding it close in his lap, ear tucked away out of sight. "Hey, Abigail," he whispers. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good," she slurs. Her eyelids are heavy, breathing slow. He can see a bandage over the side of her face, sticking out from her hair. "You…. You good?"

Will swallows. _No_ , he wants to say. "I will be," he replies. "Hannibal told you the plan, right?"

"Yeah," she says dreamily. "Good luck, Will."

He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply when she hangs up, and he hands the phone back to Hannibal. "Dry?" he asks.

"It'll help preserve the sample if you don't rinse it with alcohol, yes," Hannibal says. "But if you'd like water, that will be fine."

Will considers it. "It'll dilute her," he says.

Hannibal nods. "It won't be the last thing you ingest," he says, like a promise. Will frowns, but doesn't question. Sometimes it's nice to be surprised.

He holds the ear in both hands like Holy Communion and stares at it like a snake. Hannibal nods, barely a blur of shadow in his peripheral. Will closes his eyes, and sucks in a breath.

He tips his head back and swallows the ear like a shot of tequila. It's cold and has more texture than he anticipated, it sticks in his throat and Hannibal is there, instantly, one hand tight on the back of his neck, the other petting his throat, forcing him to swallow as Hannibal stands, and kisses him, robbing him of air since he doesn't have a third hand. Will chokes on it, gags and swallows as much as he can, with saliva and blood in his mouth, as Hannibal forces his esophagus to take Abigail's ear, pushing against Will's throat hard enough to physically force it so far down his gag reflex can't recover it.

When Will feels it burning past his heart, Hannibal lets go of his nape, and his kiss turns gentle. "Well done, Will," he praises quietly, and kisses Will's warm forehead.

Will swallows, dry-mouthed. "I'm going to throw up," he whispers. His throat is abused and his entire body rebels against what he's just done. Hannibal nods, once, as though confirming something to himself, and straightens in front of Will. With Will sitting so low, he looks imposing and absolute.

"I can help with that," he promises. His thumb is gentle on the corner of Will's mouth, but feels like salt on an open wound as Will stares up at him, his vision blurring. "Your stomach needs to reflect the blood under your nails and the actions of a feral Alpha." He holds Will still, their eyes locked. Will couldn't look away if he tried.

He knows what Hannibal means, and swallows. "Mine or yours?" he whispers.

"Stomach acid will dissolve the identifier," Hannibal replies. "You can't deny there's an easier route. And it will help assuage your nausea."

Will laughs, and it hurts, burns in his chest where he is sure the ear lies. If he presses hard enough, maybe he can feel it, and feel her inside him. But he nods, closing his eyes as Hannibal runs gentle fingers through his hair and smooths them onto the nape of his neck. Will leans forward, nuzzling his mate's thigh, and sighs when Hannibal's cock starts to thicken in interest.

"Make it rough," Will says.

"Of course," Hannibal replies. This is, after all, meant to be the height of passion. Of rage, of feverish love. It needs to look like, whatever happened, Will's victim fought back.

Will sits and tries to control his stomach as Hannibal unfastens his suit pants and pulls his cock from the hole in his underwear. It's already reddened, already dripping. Will's mouth waters, flooded with the scent of his mate. He parts his lips barely an inch and moans as Hannibal fists a hand in his hair and forces his cock into Will's mouth.

It's bruising and rough and Will closes his eyes, letting tears form. He lets them run down his cheeks, for later. He holds his hands by his sides as Hannibal fucks his throat, deep and hard like they're making love, whatever version of love gives them fangs and claws.

Will chokes, whining despite himself. He's hard, and presses a hand to his erection, squeezing it in punishment for getting off on his mate fucking their daughter's ear deeper down his throat. He understands the logic behind it – a feral Alpha confuses fight and fuck instinct. It's not unheard of for one to masturbate over his kills. Covering Abigail's ear with semen in his stomach will erase any doubt of what Will did.

He will be a monster, perverted, grotesque. They will look at him and shudder with revulsion, with fear. They will see something terrible.

He looks up at Hannibal, meeting his eyes. Hannibal's gaze is blister-hot, burns him, as he crushes Will's nose to his pelvis and growls, lowly. Will feels the pressure of his knot and doesn't fight it. Taking Hannibal's knot in his ass is difficult enough; it's almost impossible behind his teeth. But Hannibal works a thumb between Will's jaws and wrenches them apart to make room for himself, just as he did in Will's skull and his heart and so-often between his legs.

Will gags when Hannibal's knot swells and seals behind his teeth. His tongue is trapped and it hurts. His muscles clench all over, worst in his throat and his jaw. Spit wells up around the broken seal and drips like poison, like too much alcohol in a lax mouth. Hannibal's come joins it a second later, pouring down his throat as Will whimpers and takes it as best he can.

Hannibal has a sensitive knot, Will knows. Any stimulation causes it to remain swollen even after he's finished emptying himself. He sucks on it anyway, merciless as Hannibal pets his hair and rocks his hips, crushing Will's nose, bruising his lips. It's decadent and pure and Will wants to drown in it. His vision is grey when Hannibal finally has enough, and forces Will's mouth open so far that his jaw cracks so he can pull out.

Will swallows, gasping for air. "Hit me," he whispers.

Hannibal hesitates only a moment, and then there's a stinging _slap_ , right across Will's cheek, making his head snap to one side. Will sucks in a breath, closes his eyes, and swallows again. It's easier to think with the sharp, sudden pain. Hannibal doesn't pull his punches.

When he opens his eyes again, Hannibal has tucked himself back in and is crouching in front of him. "I must go," he says. "I will remove my scent, like I was never here." Will nods, fighting down the pathetic urge to tell him to stay. It won't matter, he wants to say, if Hannibal is here or not when Will vomits up the ear.

Except it will matter. His house can't smell like Hannibal, and Will wants to sleep.

So he nods. "Kiss me," he begs. Hannibal smiles, and obeys, sharing the taste of his come and their daughter and Will's pain. He kisses Will's red cheek, and his forehead, and the top of his head. Will lays down, the sound of his mate cleaning his house and the scent of lemon air freshener taking him by the throat and pulling him under.

Will throws up the ear two hours later. He stumbles to the sink and feels it lurching up his throat like a slug, spits it out half-chewed. He doesn't remember chewing it, but there it is, torn on the edges and slick with bile and leftover seminal fluid. He trembles when he sees it, and allows himself the water he wouldn't have before, turning on the faucet and cupping his hand beneath, and then pushing his entire head under the cold water. It bites down his spine and makes him shudder.

He stares down at the ear, for a moment, trying to breathe through the remaining nausea and calm his trembling. He can feel his eyes prickling red, outrage and impotent sorrow rising up at him like snarling dogs. He tells himself she's alive. He tells himself this is part of the plan, and Hannibal knows what he's doing, and Will spoke to Abigail less than three hours ago.

He tells himself all of this, but he's not sure it works.

He forces himself not to touch the ear or try to hide it, and goes back to his bed. His sheets are stained with sweat. He sits, and calls Hannibal. "It's done," he says. "Should I expect police?"

"I think it'll be more believable if I have to convince you to turn yourself in," Hannibal replies mildly.

Will presses his lips together, and nods to himself, closing his eyes. "Can you give me another hour or so?" he asks. "I'm tired."

"Of course, darling, if you don't mind the smell."

Will didn't, but as soon as Hannibal mentions it, he can't ignore it. Stomach acid and too-warm flesh and sweat. He growls into the receiver, and hears Hannibal laughing as he ends the call and throws the phone to the other side of the bed. It slides, and clatters off. The plastic casing cracks against the floor, gaining Buster's attention, as he comes over to sniff at it.

Will rolls onto his side and presses a hand to his stomach, still nauseous and sore from throwing up so suddenly. He closes his eyes and waits for Hannibal to show up.

Will manages to doze off, or at least drift in and out of fitful unawareness. A hand on his shoulder rouses him and he rolls to his back, blinking up into the dark eyes of his mate. Hannibal, to his credit, does a capable job of looking concerned.

"Kitchen sink," he says. Hannibal nods, like he already knew.

He pulls Will upright and wraps a clean blanket around him, or at least one that Will hasn't soaked through with sweat. Will grits his teeth, bowing forward over his own knees, and breathes in deeply. "I feel like I'm going into shock," he whispers.

"A natural reaction," Hannibal says mildly. "Your body is under the impression you killed and consumed one of your pack."

"Does that impression fade any time soon?"

"I suppose it depends on how deeply you allow the illusion to take you," Hannibal replies. "It may last as long as it takes for you to see Abigail again."

And who knows how long that would be.

Will swallows, feels the bitter aftertaste on his tongue like licorice cough medicine. "Hannibal," he whispers, "I feel like I'm not here."

Hannibal's head tilts, his hand gentle on Will's back. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Will rasps. He shakes his head and pushes the blanket off, shoving himself to his feet. "It doesn't matter. Should I shower? Give you a bag? I have one packed already. I can -."

"I'll take care of it," Hannibal assures him, standing and halting Will mid-pace. Will's eyes snap to him, pupils far too small, adrenaline starting to take its toll. Hannibal cups the back of Will's skull and nudges their cheeks together, and Will breathes in deeply, seeking solace. "I need you frantic, and confused. You just killed your daughter, Will, you can't be so calm."

Will nods.

Hannibal smiles, and kisses Will's forehead, just a light brush of lips, that Will quickly wipes away, muting Hannibal's scent on his skin. "I'll make the call," Hannibal says. Will nods again, and gathers the blanket Hannibal gave him. He wraps himself in it and listens, absently, to Hannibal calling Jack, confirming their worst fears.

Will goes and sits on his porch, staring out at the tree line, the field, the tire tracks like claw marks in the greenery. The paw prints and mud puddles scattered around from the dogs. He'll miss his dogs, too. He hopes Hannibal can arrange something for them, while Will is away.

He sets his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his forearms. Hannibal comes out briefly, and has Will wrap his hands around Hannibal's wrists to bruise them, and claw lines into his neck as though he tried to fight. When Jack shows up, it's with a veritable army. His lips twitch; overkill. Of course. Will is meant to be feral and angry and broken from the inside. He struggles, performatively, until they get him in cuffs. He snarls and shows his teeth to Jack because that's what they expect to see.

When he's in the van and being driven away, he can see Hannibal in the small window in the back door. Hannibal isn't smiling – there are still people around, forensic analysts and photographers and people like Jimmy and Brian and Beverly who would notice if Hannibal looked _pleased_ at this development.

So he does not smile. But Will can tell he is, on the inside.

Will doesn't like it inside the BSHCI. Then again, he doesn't assume that he's meant to _like_ it in there. The teal hue of the building, the chromatic highlights like Chilton's trying to capture something futuristic and elevated, the cold limestone walls. None of it is comforting or soothing to him. Alphas like black and red, not blue and gold. The small cot and the thin blankets and the barren too-shiny toilet in the corner of the room just add insult to injury.

Will paces with his feet bare, unwilling to wear the shoes that are part of the standard jumpsuit uniform. They are too white and too clean and pinch his toes. The cold on his feet is grounding. The abrasive air reminds him to breathe, to let it sting his nose and the roof of his mouth and the tender little bronchioles at the very edges of his lungs. He pretends Hannibal is feeding it to him, and it goes down easier.

The court-mandated therapist visits him – not Doctor Du Maurier; she can't come see evidence of a black mark on her reputation. Will wonders, absently, if Hannibal has some grounds to frame her for medical neglect. He's always been an efficient man, and wastes nothing.

The therapist comes with Alana, who stares at Will like she is witnessing a horrific tragedy that could have been easily prevented. Will doesn't judge or resent her those stares. They are only natural, he supposes, when faced with the reality of a violent Alpha that killed his own pack member. An Alpha she had the chance to stop, or soothe.

"Do you remember anything?" Alana asks. Ah, so they're going with an insanity defense. A lapse of awareness caused by feral inclinations with no proper _outlet_. How domestic.

"Of course I do," Will replies, chin lifted. "But if you think it'll help my defense, I can say I don't."

Alana takes a step forward. "Will, you could be _executed_ for this," she says. She's so earnest, she's so _blind_. Will tilts his head and considers her, the crease in her brow, the hunch of her shoulders. It's strange, he thinks, to be around someone who so genuinely cares for him. Someone that's not part of his pack, not really, though he has always considered her one of those pleasant diversions.

Something to be admired from afar, but never touched, like an oil painting. His mouth stings with the memory of her tongue inside it.

He turns away, and lines up the final hurdle. "I didn't kill her, Alana," he says. "I could never."

"Will, they found -."

"I know what they found. But I didn't do it. I'm not feral."

No, not feral, but displaced. He has been removed from his mate and his pack within the same hour. Hannibal hasn't visited him, even for a moment, since Will was admitted. Will knows why – he has to play the part of shocked, mourning friend. The one who will say 'I couldn't imagine', and he needs to take care of Abigail and keep her safe and hidden away. Make arrangements for their escape.

He knows all of this, but the wide-open space where they have put him in this tiny little cage feels like staring out the window of a plane and there is lightning all around. He wants to stretch his legs and wings; he needs to leave and find his family.

Alas.

"If you're not here in a legal capacity to help with my case, then I'd like you to leave," Will snaps. He must sound hurt, and he plays the part like he's been doing this all this life. Guilty and angry and sad all at once. It feels like stacking up Jenga blocks.

Alana is on the verge of tears, but she doesn't need to be told twice. Will wonders who she will run to, first – Hannibal or Jack.

Probably Hannibal.

When Will has a court date, Hannibal visits him. They are alone, insofar as they can be alone in the BSHCI. There is a guard at the door to intervene if Will gets too uppity, and Hannibal was told in no uncertain terms to remain behind the pissing line.

There's bruising on Hannibal's neck from Will's claws. There's also a scent on him, that Will knows. His upper lip curls back. "Did you fuck her?" he snarls.

"Implied," Hannibal says, smiling. "A little too much to drink. Of course, I would never take advantage of someone who could not fully consent. But you were right – she's very kissable." Will lifts his chin. "She spent the night. But no, Will, I didn't."

"Because you know I would kill you?" Will asks, and meets his eyes. "I would. Everything else be damned. I would kill anyone you touched. Anyone who looked at you the way I look at you."

Hannibal smiles. Will knows he adores when Will gets possessive. The heat and itch of red behind his eyes isn't fake, this time. He approaches the bars of his cage and leans between them, the metal cool against his cheeks. "I'd go one step further," he promises. "Take your lower jaw, muzzle you, castrate you. You're nothing if not mine."

Hannibal steps forward, too, drawn to Will like a moth to a flame. The guard doesn't react when Hannibal gets close – Hannibal is an Alpha, after all, and bigger than Will, and Will can't do _much_ damage in a cage. So they think.

"Allow yourself your jealousies, Will," Hannibal says. "You will not be allowed any on stage."

"Stage," Will echoes. "The court hearing."

"It will be quite an affair," Hannibal says, smiling. "They have caught the Ripper."

Will frowns.

"There's quite a case against you."

Will's eyes widen in understanding. "You really are going to expose all of it, aren't you?" he asks, and laughs. "Serial killing, cannibalism, torture. Killing Abigail is just a cherry on that fat cake. Jack will get a promotion out of this. Maybe a medal."

"How unfortunate, that he has the wrong man," Hannibal purrs, his smile wide. "Do not fret, my love – I will not see you put in the chair."

"Shock me to death," Will murmurs. "I always wondered if you could."

Hannibal smiles. His fingers curl beneath his folded coat, bulging the fabric. Will closes his eyes and sighs. "How is she?" he whispers, as quietly as he's able.

"She's doing well," Hannibal replies. "She's been following your case religiously. She wanted me to tell you that she misses you, and is also very impressed by how you're handling everything." His head tilts. "She possesses a remarkable attachment to you already. It's made me consider things."

Will opens his eyes, frowning.

"How might you fare, perhaps, if we had another child."

Will bares his teeth. "Medicine's not that advanced, Doctor," he says, laughing. "Unless there's something you're not telling me." Hannibal smiles, and shakes his head. "Let’s stick with one impossibility at a time, shall we?"

"Rest assured, Will, if you possessed the ability to bear my child, I would have planted one in you the night we met. A dozen more, since."

"The night you assaulted me," Will corrects.

"And you claimed me. Who was in the wrong, then?"

"I never said that." Will smiles, and sighs again. "I want to touch you. Get away from me."

Hannibal steps back, bowing his head in a small nod. It doesn't help. "God, Hannibal," Will growls, "when I'm out of here I'm going to -."

"Time's up, Doctor Lecter." Will snarls, _loudly,_ as Chilton appears at the doorway. There is a wide smile on his face, peacocking and proud. What a feather in his cap, to have the Ripper held at his facility. Hannibal bows his head again, and leaves with the other Alpha without looking back at Will once.

The guard comes forward, and opens Will's cage. Will steps out and lets himself be cuffed, the straps on his strait jacket pinned to his opposite sides. "You shouldn't be in here," the man says. Will tilts his head. "You should be out there, free. I admire your work."

Will eyes him. Thinks about how he might taste, laid out on his mate's dining table. The man's eyes are on the mating bite on Will's neck. He's an Alpha, too, red-eyed and tall, built like a tiger. In another life, Will might have drawn him closer, and put terrible ideas in his head.

"I'll be out," he says instead. "I'm innocent."

The man smiles, wide and toothy. "Of course you are."

Will's lawyer is Hannibal's lawyer – Leonard Brauner, "Please, call me Leo, Mister Graham." No one knows their affiliation. Leo is discrete and no-nonsense and doesn't give a fuck if Will is innocent or not. All the best lawyers are like that.

Will likes him instantly. The man is shrewd and sharp and reads the room like an open book. He's good, but Hannibal is better. Between the evidence he placed and the testimony from Alana, and Jack, and Kade Prurnell, Will is definitely screwed.

Until the package shows up.

"I think I got your mail," Leo says lightly, showing Will the bloody stump of Abigail's other ear. Will's entire body tightens with nausea and he turns away, heaving, and looks so much a wreck that when the new evidence comes to light, all Hell breaks loose.

It falls in his favor, of course. The test confirms that it is, indeed, Abigail. The box was dropped off by a delivery service under a fake name with a fake address somewhere in Wisconsin. The other evidence suddenly turns much more circumstantial – Will is a professor, after all, and lectures on the Ripper. It would make sense that he had Ripper-related materials in his house.

He didn't kill his daughter. The ear was fresh.

And now, we are brought back to the present.

No one is there to greet Will when he exits the courthouse. There were paparazzi and press at one point, spearheaded by the driven and thirsty Freddie Lounds, whose appetite for Will's humiliation almost rivals Will's desire to destroy her. Maybe he will, one day – he does hate leaving projects unfinished.

They're more interested in the man who put him behind bars, now. Jack Crawford's reputation is up in flames after this public debacle. How dare he, they say, try to make an honest and good man into such a monster? Will is no longer their shiny toy, no longer the scandal they can sink their teeth into.

He's old news, just as he likes it.

There's a single car waiting in the parking lot after hours, at a bank where no one thinks to look. It's black and the windows are tinted, and the engine is running. He circles to the passenger seat and slides in.

Immediately, warmth envelopes him, with the scent he knows as well as his own. He closes his eyes, sighs, and tips his head back against the headrest.

"Everything's ready?" he asks, and holds out his hand.

Hannibal's warm, long fingers lace with his own, and squeeze. "She's waiting for us."

Will smiles, just the barest twitch of his lips to show his fangs, and he nods. "Let's go, then."

Hannibal was keeping Abigail up on the Bay in a cabin he has owned for years. She's on the large patio when Hannibal and Will arrive. Her scent is sweet on the ocean breeze, and when he rounds the corner, he sees her playing with Winston and Buster, caught in a game of tug-o-war with the two dogs.

Hannibal puts a hand on Will's back and says; "I couldn't keep all of them. Forgive me, my love."

Will didn't expect to see any of them again. He's sure Hannibal knows that.

Abigail looks up when she sees them, smiling widely. There are bandages over both sides of her face, demure and hidden by hair. She leaps to her feet and Will runs to her, embracing her tightly, his nose in her hair as she clings to him and shivers with relief.

"I'm so glad you're okay," she says.

Will pulls back and cups her face, gentle on the bandages, though she doesn't appear to be in any pain. He smiles, and kisses her forehead, hugging her again. His chest vibrates with a violent purr, in the presence of his mate and his daughter. He can't remember the last time he felt so elated.

Hannibal kisses the back of Will's head, and then nuzzles Abigail's cheek when she straightens to hug him as well. "Let's get inside," he murmurs, and leads them in. Will has never seen this cabin – it's modern and clean, with a wall of windows and a balcony making a second floor. It smells lived-in, a happy juvenile female and remnants of her visiting father.

Will is tired, and needs a shower. But first, to be coated in his mate, so that he belongs here too. He lets Hannibal lead him up to the master bedroom and sighs heavily at the rush of red and black accents. The bedspread on the monster-sized mattress, dark as an abyss, the moldings the same. Red carpet, and red picture frames.

He laughs when he sees the sketch of a severed tongue, and turns, grabbing Hannibal and kissing him, taunting his mate as Hannibal growls and puts his teeth to the surface of Will's tongue. The air tastes so much better when Hannibal breathes it into him.

"Come here," Will growls, pawing at Hannibal's clothes, moving towards the bed.

Hannibal smiles, no protest in him at all. Though he is better at hiding it – or perhaps he's too smug to let it show – Will knows he has ached for Will just as badly as Will has needed him. His hands shake and his heart is racing from a single kiss.

This is a blood-high, a victory like a fresh kill. Will felt it when he slaughtered Hobbs. He felt it when Alana hid herself away like a frightened mouse. He felt it walking out of the courthouse.

He feels it now, saliva dripping from his fangs as he peels Hannibal's collar down and bites him over his claw marks, savagely, threatening to rip his throat out. Hannibal snarls at him, a fist in Will's hair as they fall and grind together, creaking into the mattress, ready to turn it to ash.

"Inside me," Will demands, spreading his legs. Hannibal snaps teeth around Will's jaw and trembles in Will's arms. "Have you touched yourself since I've been gone?"

"No," Hannibal replies. Will's body is far more satisfying than his own hand.

"Even with Alana?" His smile is cruel.

" _Especially_ with Alana," Hannibal says. "Though I imagined I could still taste you on her lips. Your scent clung to her hair, I wanted it so much I tricked myself into thinking it was." Will doesn't like that, he doesn't, he -. Hannibal's hand curls in his clothes and _rips_ , and Will's brain stutters in place along with his heart.

"Fast," Will commands. While he was away, his Alpha Voice faded, the growth becoming weak and useless in his throat. Now, with Hannibal's blood in his teeth, he can feel it growing again. He might not be able to speak for a while, but that's alright. Hannibal has never needed words to know what he wants. "No knotting. We have to leave."

Hannibal's eyes flash, but he acquiesces with a soft sigh to Will's throat. "Then let me bite you," he says, hands fever-warm and soft on Will's thighs, forcing them apart before he spreads his knees, keeping Will open, and works at his own clothes. "You will not deny me both."

Will laughs, and laughs. He hooks his fingers in Hannibal's mouth and rears up, forcing him to kneel upright. Will kisses him around his fingers, and then drags Hannibal's head down, to his cock, his pale thighs, the jut of his hips.

As soon as he slides his fingers free, Hannibal snarls, and sinks his teeth into Will's thigh, shedding blood like a burst fountain. Will moans, falling back onto the bed, panting as Hannibal runs his fingers through the slick and smears it between Will's legs, getting him wet. Hannibal seals his lips and sucks, groaning, a choking noise like he's sucking Will's cock. Will's toes curl at the sound of it.

"Come on, Hannibal," Will bites out. "We don't have time for this."

Hannibal lifts his head, blood dripping from his lips. Will wants to drink from him and nothing else for the rest of his life. "Our flight departs in eight hours," he says. "We have time."

Will smiles, but doesn't relent.

His fingers gather more blood, and he shoves two inside him, nostrils flaring as he breathes through the sudden feeling. It's been too long – a day feels too long, let alone weeks. Hannibal watches, kisses Will's thighs, down to his knee, up to his hip. His hands slide below Will, cupping his ass and making him spread wider.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Will gasps, as his fingers find his prostate. Hannibal snarls, possessiveness compelling him to wrench Will's hands away and force his own fingers inside, three at once, curling mercilessly along Will's sensitive insides. His thumb flattens on the outside, pinching, the sensation making Will's eyes burn with red. "Hannibal, fuck…."

Hannibal rears up, suddenly, and grabs Will by the nape of his neck, hauling him into a bloody kiss. "Get on your hands and knees," he commands, pulling his fingers out. "It's time I claimed you properly."

Will's eyes widen, and he obeys, sliding to his knees and sinking to his elbows in the classic mounting position, though he is not an Omega. Hannibal's hands flatten on his flanks, slide up, grip his shoulders. He ruts close to Will until his cockhead catches on Will's rim. He flattens himself over Will, holding him down with his hands tight around Will's wrists, and puts his knees on the outside of Will's, hobbling him.

He penetrates Will at the same time he noses Will's sweaty hair out of the way, shoves the collar of his shirt down, and bites him so deeply Will feels it all the way down his spine. He grits his teeth, snarling in pain and instinctive outrage, as Hannibal fucks into him without hesitation, making every inch of his exhausted, sore body tremble.

" _Hannibal_ ," he whispers, voice so rough it barely forms the word.

Hannibal withdraws his teeth, licking over the new bite, purring loudly, chest vibrating against Will's back. He laces their fingers together and rubs his cheek against Will's.

"Can you be quiet, darling?" he whispers. "Or do I need to gag you?"

Will closes his eyes and bows his head. "I can be quiet," he says.

Hannibal laughs, affectionate and low. "Liar."

Eight hours later, they are settled on a plane bound for London. From there, Italy. Whether there's a third destination or not, Will doesn't know, nor does he particularly care. The only looks they get are the typical confused ones from people who have never seen an Alpha-Alpha pair before.

But this is New York. They're more progressive up here, at least on paper.

Abigail has the window seat, Will beside her, Hannibal pinning them all in, in the aisle seat. Abigail dozes off almost immediately, so sweet and young. Will feels that father's love in his chest and is glad it has softened, with a loving mate and affectionate daughter.

Hannibal laces their fingers together and offers Will a bottle of water. "Sedated?" Will teases.

"If you like," Hannibal offers. "Are you a nervous flyer?"

"No," Will says. He opens the cap one-handed and takes a drink, sighing in relief. His throat is still terribly sore and the bruising on the nape of his neck spreads out almost as wide as a hand. Hannibal bit deep, and many times. Will still limps a little and hisses at the pressure of his thighs against each other when he settles.

Hannibal nuzzles him, sighing in contentment. Will's scent is now sweet, mint chocolate and lemongrass; his happy, sated scent. Until Abigail, Hannibal has been the sole source of it. He can learn to share, he supposes. Will's happiness warms the entire room.

Will takes a drink, seals the bottle, and tucks it into the pocket of the seat in front. He squeezes Hannibal's fingers and fixes him with dark, beautiful eyes, the same color as the sky overhead. The sky they will soon be part of, for a time.

"Will," Hannibal breathes, lowly, as the flight crew being their final checks. "If I saw you every day, forever, I would remember this time."

Will's smile gentles, showing his dimples and the edge of his teeth. "You're not going to leave me, are you, Doctor?" he purrs, nudging his nose against Hannibal's chin. "Should I leash you to my side and never let you look anywhere else?"

"I will never leave," Hannibal vows, as he did the night they met. He's not sure Will remembers the details, he was very drunk, after all. But Hannibal said the same. Confessed it, in the quiet, when Will had blood on his hands and Hannibal had a bite in his neck. "To be with you is to be in the presence of greatness."

Will laughs. "That silver tongue," he muses. "I'll let you keep it, I suppose."

Hannibal smiles, and kisses him chastely. Will's thumb brushes gently over the lingering bruises Hannibal bid him put on his wrists. His eyes are contemplative as he looks at the purple marks. He presses, to a particularly tender spot, and Hannibal hums, lashes going low.

"Our apartment is large," he tells Will. "And Abigail has already been applying to colleges, while you were away. We will have some time to ourselves while she gets acclimated."

Will's brow creases.

"We will go where she goes," Hannibal promises, soothing his mate with a gentle kiss to his temple. "Don't fret."

"Good," Will breathes. He closes his eyes. The water wasn't sedated, Hannibal didn't want to assume, but Will's body relaxes by increments. He rests his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder, wincing at the pull on his neck. Hannibal kisses his hair and breathes him in, ravenously.

The flight attendants finish their checks. The pilot's voice drones on, and the automatic safety video begins to play. Hannibal gazes upon his family, his fingers still held tight within Will's, a smile on his face. Will is asleep by the time they are in the air. Hannibal can hear him calling, in that corner of fate and bloodshed around which his mind palace is now centered.

He closes his eyes, and rushes to meet Will there in the dark.


End file.
